An Assortment
by DaggerPen
Summary: A collection of my Batfamily fics for the DCU Freeforall LJ community. Some Tim/Kon, but no other slash. Rated "M" for prolific swearing in several fics, but nothing else should be worth anything higher than "T".
1. Anniversary

A/N: Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. (This applies to this and future entries)

Prompt: encounter.

Rating: M for language.

Characters/pairings: Bruce, Jason (non-slash)

Summary: A conversation between Bruce and Jason on the sixth anniversary of Jason's death.

* * *

"Here lies Jason Todd," read the inscription, "Loved son." He wondered absently if it'd be in bad taste to deface his own gravestone, maybe correct it a bit. Probably.

April 27th. Exactly six years since his murder now.

Happy fucking anniversary.

Jason wasn't really sure why he was here. Nowhere else to go, he supposed. His apartment wasn't really much more than a place to sleep and store guns; he sure as hell couldn't sleep right now, and there was no way he was sitting around there all day. He'd tried going out on patrol- it was broad daylight, yeah, but he'd still managed to track down some deserving targets. Beat up a few muggers. Took down a few drug dealers. Shit like that. But today, he hadn't been able to focus. Just about got his head taken off by some hired goon with a machine gun. Almost ended up with a knife in the back when he let his guard down mid-brawl. And after, down at the docks, some hapless thug had attacked him with, of all the Goddamn weapons he could have chosen, a crowbar, Jason had just quit. There was no fucking way he could fight anymore today.

So... yeah. Cemetery. The place didn't look at all like he remembered, not that he recalled much of the scenery. Still, it just seemed- well, a lot more peaceful, to be honest. Quiet. Sedate. Never think it was the same grave he'd clawed his way out of.

Suddenly, everything seemed a lot less serene. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He needed a drink. Something strong, and lots of it.

He heard a faint rustle of movement to his right, and turned, not really expecting anything. His jaw just about dropped.

It was Bruce.

The man was wearing his usual suit: black shoes, black jacket with a white shirt, no tie. He looked like he'd just come from a meeting or something. Or to a funeral.

Jason tensed at his approach, but Bruce made no move to attack, stopping a few yards away. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, they just stared at each other, expressions unreadable. Slowly, Jason relaxed, and Bruce crossed the rest of the distance, sitting by his son. Neither of them looked at the other.

Jason was the first to speak. "Six years now" he said, eyes still fixed on the gravestone. "Sure as fuck doesn't seem like it, does it?" Bruce said nothing, and Jason continued, "Course, I can only remember three of them, y'know?" He turned to face Bruce, lips twisted in a mirthless smile.

Bruce remained silent and Jason sighed, tugging a cigarette from his pocket.

"I wish you wouldn't smoke," Bruce said at last.

"There are a lot of things you wish I wouldn't do," Jason retorted.

"It could kill you, eventually."

"It'll have to get in line."

He lit it, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply.

For a while, neither of them said anything. Finally, Jason broke the silence.

"It's weird, being back here." He ran a hand over the grass and laughed humorlessly. "Never know it'd been dug up- what, 3 times now?" He took another drag of smoke and continued, "Always wondered who filled it back in, after I- after the first time." Another drag. "I mean, gaping hole, splintered coffin, missing corpse- not something you see every day. You'd think someone woulda said something. Called the police or some shit like that. 'Lock the doors, there's a zombie on the loose!'" He laughed shakily, humorlessly.

"I'm sorry, Jason," Bruce said quietly, and fuck him, for being so serious when Jason just wanted to pretend that, for once in his Goddamn life, everything was fine. "I should have been there." Bruce rested a hand on his son's shoulder, but Jason shrugged it off, not looking at him.

"I guess it doesn't matter now," he dismissed.

Silent again. Jason finished his cigarette and stubbed it out against the gravestone, watching Bruce's reaction out of the corner of his eye. Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly, but said nothing. Jason lit another one.

"You know, I keep thinking about the funeral," Jason said, if only to banish the quiet. "Who attended, what it was like, that type of morbid shit. Must've been a pretty small crowd. I mean," he raised a hand, counting off people, "There would've been you, Dick, Alfred, probably Babs, but other than that? I didn't really have many friends at school- none that'd show for a funeral, at any rate. Maybe one or two of the Titans, but I don't get the feeling I was much missed there. So that's, what, four people?"

Bruce said nothing.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Jason asked, not sure why he hated the thought, the idea, but despising it all the same.

Nothing. Jason wasn't entirely surprised to find tears welling up in his eyes, and he blinked them away, taking a drag off his cigarette, savoring the faint burn in his lungs, the rush of nicotine through his veins. He exhaled, watching the smoke curl around him.

"Well. There you go."

"Jason-" Bruce began, then broke off, sighing. Jason again felt a hand on his shoulder, and he allowed himself to be pulled into the embrace, wordless. "You- you weren't forgotten," Bruce hesitated, "I missed you, Jason. We all did."

Jason did not respond, running a hand absently over the inscription, the granite cool to his touch. "When I die again, I think I'd like to be cremated," he said at last. "Have my ashes spread over the Narrows. No grave, no headstone, no stupid little case in the Cave- nothing. No mystery resurrections, either. Actually rest in fucking peace. Besides, I think I've lost my taste for coffins, y'know?"

He felt Bruce tense against him and realized he'd struck a nerve. He hadn't even meant to, this time.

"You shouldn't talk that way," Bruce whispered.

"What way?" Jason asked, already knowing the answer.

"You're 19, Jason," Bruce said, "You'll outlive me by decades."

Jason snorted derisively. "_Right_. I'm sure I'll live a long, fulfilling life. Maybe settle down, get married, have a white house with a picket fence and 2.5 kids."

"Jason, stop," Bruce said quietly, and Jason wondered just what it was that disturbed Bruce: Jason's second death, or Bruce's second failure.

He wondered if he could find out. "I mean, really, how long do you think I'll live?" he pushed, "How long any of us will live? It's only a matter of time before someone gets in a lucky shot. It always is."

"Jason, please, stop." Bruce's voice was barely audible, and heavy with emotion.

Jason knew from the moment the words left his mouth that he was going to far, but he couldn't seem to stop himself, wasn't sure he wanted to. "Dick'll probably last the longest- Golden Boy always was good like that. Can't say with the new one, though. He's a shitty fighter, so-"

"**Stop."** Jason felt Bruce's grip on his shoulder tighten painfully, heard the anger in his voice, and he turned towards him, a sense of satisfaction overtaking him. Bruce was shaking with rage and pain; his eyes bored into Jason's, and- fuck, was Bruce _crying_?

Whatever satisfaction he'd had, vanished. All of a sudden, he felt sick. His gaze dropped to his feet. After a moment, he felt the hand on his shoulder loosen, disappear. Jason stubbed out his cigarette, this time on the ground next to him. Once again, his eyes stung with tears, and he rubbed his hand over them.

"Sorry," he mumbled, "I just..." he trailed off. "I guess there's nothing like dying to shove your own mortality in your face, huh?" He turned towards Bruce. The man's expression softened, and Jason wasn't sure why it was such a relief.

"Jason-" he broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. "You really don't understand, do you?"

Jason blinked, surprised by the sudden question. "Understand what?"

"How much I love you. How much I missed you- miss you. How it kills me to see you like this, and know that it's my fault. How much it hurts to hear you talk about your own death like it's going to happen tomorrow, and know that you mean it. How painful it is to see you so hurt, so angry, and to realize that I have no idea how to bring you back, how every time I try it seems like I just push you away farther."

Jason couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, because, fuck, that was everything and nothing he wanted to hear, all at once. He turned away, choking back a sob, but a hand under his chin forced his gaze back up. "I _will_ save you, Jason," Bruce continued, "If I have to drag you back home kicking and screaming, fine, because I will _not _sit by and watch you destroy yourself."

Jason wanted to scream, to yell, to tell Bruce that he didn't need his help, that he didn't need saving, that if Bruce wanted him back so fucking much, if he really cared, he'd kill the Joker, or at least let Jason do it, but no sound came from his mouth. Bruce's hand on his jaw was painfully tight, and Bruce's eyes were hard, piercing, determined. Again, Jason looked away, and Bruce released him. He drew his knees to his chest, shaking, his breathing ragged, eyes closed, trying and failing to hold back tears. For a heartbeat, Bruce hesitated, then reached out and set a hand on Jason's shoulder.

"Jason," he began, his voice soft, comforting.

The boy twisted from his grip, still not looking at him.

"Go," he finally whispered, his voice choked. "Just go."

Bruce stood. "When you decide you want to end this," he said gently, "I'll be there. Just say the word, and I'll do everything I can to help you."

"Get the fuck out of here!" Jason yelled. Bruce did not move. Jason shuddered, taking a few uneven breaths. "Please," he pleaded, "Just go."

Bruce turned and walked away.


	2. Reunion

A/N:

Prompt: alive.

Rating: T for language, vaguely implied sex.

Characters/pairings: Tim/Kon

Summary: Kon-El announces his resurrection to a certain Robin. Passionate making out follows.

* * *

The Nest's proximity alarms alerted him to his presence before his visitor announced himself, but all the alarms in the world couldn't have prepared him for the teen now standing in front of him.

He hadn't really known what to expect from the arrival, whether the meta making a beeline to Robin's "Nest", one of his small hideouts around Gotham, was friend or foe, but he whatever he'd expected, it hadn't been this.

Tim could only stare at the visitor, a dark-haired young man in his mid-teens, clad not in his distinctive costume, but a simple, gray one-piece suit that did nothing to make him any less recognizable to the young superhero.

"Tim," was all the youth said.

He had no idea how his guest had found the hidden den, but that was hardly the first question that sprung to his reeling mind.

He was alive.

Kon-El was alive.

"How-" he began, only to be silenced as Kon's mouth sealed over his own. For a moment, he just stood there, his already stunned mind dazed by the shock, but he recovered quickly. Tim returned the kiss, his mind wiped clean of all concerns but shoving his tongue down the teen's throat.

Fuck "how". Let the others figure out "how". Let Bruce do his DNA tests; let Wonder Woman question him; let Superman x-ray him or whatever the hell Superman would do; Tim didn't give a damn. Kon was alive.

And how. Tim deepened the kiss, moaning slightly as the teen's hands trailed over his body, massaging, groping, tugging at his costume. Reluctantly, he pushed him away, gasping for breath as he fumbled with his belt, usually nimble hands now graceless with anticipation and astonishment. After a painfully long handful of seconds, he managed to undo the damn thing, and he moved on to his cape, his tunic, his pants, his boots, his gloves, while nearby, Kon stripped off whatever the hell the thing he was wearing was. Now down to their underwear, they moved together again, clumsily tumbling towards the Nest's small cot as they explored the other's mouth.

The mattress was hard, the sheets rough, but Kon's skin was warm against him, soft and smooth. They were sitting now, legs tangling awkwardly as they struggled to maintain the kiss whilst finding a comfortable position. Finally, Tim broke away long enough for them to settle themselves, and they joined again briefly before Tim moved on, trailing kisses down Kon's neck, his chest, his stomach, and then going back up the same way. He almost sobbed with joy as he felt the steady thrum of Kon's pulse against his lips, tasted the salt of his skin. He stopped only when firm hands pressed him down, shifting slightly as he lay back. Kon straddled him, hands pressed against Tim's chest.

Their gazes locked. Tim stared into Kon's startlingly blue eyes, breathing heavily as he regarded the mixture of love and lust they held, the hunger in the stare, and he realized then that, miraculous as it seemed, Kon was here, alive, and he wanted Tim just as much as Tim wanted Kon.

He couldn't believe it. After so long, after so much time spent wanting, pining, mourning, wishing and praying, he was here. Kon-El was back.

"It's really you," he whispered, the words leaving his mouth seemingly of their own accord.

Kon smiled, and Tim just about melted right then and there. "Yes."

Tim grinned, and Kon leaned down, his lips locking over Tim's, his hands trailing lower.

Let the other's do their tests, ask their questions. For now, Kon was alive, and that was all that mattered.

--

A/N: I think that the most annoying thing about writing same-sex pairings is trying to deal with the stupid fricking pronouns. I hate how much I had to use the proper names here; it just sounds repetitive.


	3. Necessary Wounds

A/N:

Prompt: blood.

Rating: I have no idea- PG for... well, blood?

Characters/pairings: Bruce, mentions of Jason (non-slash).

Summary: Bruce's thoughts during the infamous finale of Under the Hood.

* * *

Later, he would tell himself that it was the only choice. He would tell himself that he couldn't have just stood by and watched his son kill, watched him throw his life away for revenge. He would tell himself that, even though it meant protecting the Joker, even though it meant hurting Jason, it was for the best. He had to save his son. Later, he would tell himself these things and more.

But now, all he could see was the blood. His son was bleeding. Collapsing. Writhing on the ground in a pool of crimson. And then he was still, so very still.

Intellectually, Bruce knew that the blow wasn't fatal. He knew that he would be able to get to Jason in time to stem the bleeding and that, even if he couldn't, Jason wouldn't exsanguinate. He knew that. But that didn't make it any easier to see his son lying, bleeding on the ground, and to know that he had done it.

He knew how Jason would see it. He knew that it would only drive him further away, further from Bruce. He knew that, even though Jason would live, he had just lost his son again, and he didn't know if, this time, he would be able to get him back. And he didn't know if his son would ever forgive him.


	4. Confrontations

A/N:

Prompt: battle

Rating: M for language, probably around a T for violence

Characters/pairings: Bruce, Jason (non-slash)

Summary: Bruce sets out to bring Jason home.

* * *

He'd been avoiding this for a long time. Too long, perhaps. At first, he had simply had higher priorities, not that he hadn't still tried, if half-heartedly. Then, he hadn't been able to face him- not after the standoff with the Joker, not after what he'd had to do. After that, the excuses had been easier and easier to make- the Red Hood wasn't active enough at the moment to warrant his attention. He had more important things to worry about. And so on, and so forth. But now, his excuses had dried up and, like it or not, he was here.

It would end tonight.

He hesitated, staring at the door. He hoped that Jason would see reason, but he doubted that it would be that easy. And he didn't know what he'd do if he couldn't talk Jason into coming back.

No, that was wrong. He knew. But he didn't like it. He didn't want to have to take Jason down, but he had limited options. Jason was on an extremely self-destructive path, and he needed to be stopped. Even if Bruce had to drag him home by force.

It was a call he'd rather not make.

The wood splintered under his foot as the door flew open noisily- no point trying the lock.

Jason was sitting in an old, beaten chair, leaning over a table full of electronics, weapons and various other items. At the disturbance, he grabbed a gun and cartridge without even a glance at the door, jumping to his feet and away from the intruder. Loading the pistol as he moved, Jason turned to face the source of the noise. His eyes widened in surprise as recognition flashed in them, and he leveled the weapon, managed to fire off a shot before Bruce was on him. The bullet passed harmlessly through the cape.

Bruce seized him roughly by the wrists, knocking the gun to the floor and kicking it away as he pinned him to the wall. "This ends now," Bruce growled, "I've let this go on for far too long, but no more. One way or another, you are coming home."

Shock fading, Jason's eyes narrowed. "Is that so?" Before Bruce could stop him, Jason had dropped to the ground, breaking his grip as his leg swept over the floor, knocking Bruce off-balance. As Bruce caught himself, Jason pushed off and bolted across the room to the small, cluttered table in the center, scrabbling wildly through the mess. Bruce swore and went after him, tackling him from the side just as his hand wrapped around the hilt of his knife. The pair toppled to the ground, overturning the table in the process and causing various components and boxes of ammunition to cascade around them as they grappled, the tumult ignored by both combatants.

Bruce grabbed for the twisted blade, clamping his hand around his opponent's wrist. Before Bruce could disarm him, though, Jason jerked his arm against Bruce's thumb, managing to wrest himself free even with the poor leverage of his position, then swung the knife back around for a slash at Bruce's shoulder. He rolled to the left to avoid the blow, bringing his knee into the side of Jason's chest as he moved. Jason grunted with pain as he was knocked on his back, then again as Bruce's hand met his face, splitting open his lip. He threw himself to the side as Bruce aimed an ax kick at his stomach, then stood and darted away until he was out of reach.

Jason stepped into a fighting stance, holding his weapon protectively in front of him. Panting slightly, he wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, then shifted his hand in front of him, ready to strike. Bruce did the same. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them made any attempt to attack. The moment drew on, father and son just staring at each other, assessing the situation, neither willing to make the first move. The tension mounted, rising to an unbearable height.

As usual, Jason proved the most talkative. "What the fuck do you think is going to happen here?" He spat angrily, "You think I'm going to suddenly 'see the light' and surrender? Think we're going to suddenly be some big happy fucking family?" His voice rose in volume, his fury almost palpable as he spoke. "Think I'm going to suddenly forgive you for never giving a damn about me? For not killing the Joker? For slitting my fucking throat so you could save some psychotic son-of-a-bitch clown and uphold your useless goddamn moral code?"

Bruce's voice was low, his expression inscrutable. "That's not how it was."

"Oh, really? Then how was it?"

"It wasn't about protecting him. It's _never_ been about that," Bruce said. Jason said nothing, and he continued, "I was trying to save you. I-"

"Oh, aren't you father of the fucking year?" Jason interrupted angrily, "I guess I've had this all wrong. It wasn't about clinging to your antiquated morality, oh _no_; you were trying to _save_ me from myself. You did it because you _cared._" He shook his head. "You son of a bitch."

"I'm sorry," Bruce said, his voice barely above a whisper, "I never wanted to hurt you."

"I don't give a shit what you _wanted,_" Jason said, "You almost killed me-"

"The wound wasn't fatal; you were never supposed to be in any danger-"

"Well guess fucking what?"

"I miscalculated."

"You gambled with my life!"

"I never meant to-"

"You risked my life to save my fucking _murderer_, and then you think- you actually think that I'm going to just come home?"

"I couldn't just-"

"You honestly expect me to believe that you care about me? That you-"

"I had no choice!" Bruce shouted, the outburst surprising them both. Jason broke off, setting his jaw and saying no more. Taking a deep breath, Bruce continued more calmly, "I know, Jason. I know that I hurt you, but you have to believe that I was trying to help you. I couldn't let you kill him." Jason started to say something, but Bruce continued, "It wasn't about saving him. If it was just about him, I promise you, the Joker would be dead right now."

"Then why-?"

"Because it would have destroyed you," Bruce said.

"That's bullshit," Jason replied.

Silence, then-

"Come home. End this," Bruce entreated.

"No."

"Why?"

"You know why."

"I don't want to have to force you-"

"And how do you mean to do that?" Jason asked, "You going to drag me back in cuffs? You going to lock me up in the Cave?"

"If I have to," he said. He wasn't bluffing.

Jason's blinked in surprise, then his eyes narrowed. "You can try," he said through gritted teeth.

And just like that, the temperature in the room plummeted. They circled, searching for openings in the other's defense.

"Don't make me do this," Bruce said.

"I'm not 'making' you do anything," Jason retorted.

"I can't let this go on. This needs to end. If not for your sake, then for Gotham's."

"What the fuck is _that _supposed to mean?"

"You are wreaking havoc on this city, and it needs to end."

"I'm _saving _this fucking city! Just because you can't see it-"

"You have no idea what you're doing."

"I know exactly what I'm doing."

"No, you don't," Bruce said, "You don't know what you're doing- not to me, not to Gotham and not to yourself." He sighed. "Jason, please, end this. You're obviously not in your right mind-"

Jason tensed, and Bruce realized that he had struck a nerve. "I'm not crazy."

"Jason-"

"I'm not crazy!"

He lunged forward, furious. The knife sliced down his arm as Bruce tried to block it, the armor doing little against the specialized blade. _Damn_, Bruce thought as he retaliated, bringing his elbow to the side of Jason's head. The boy rolled with the blow, spinning around to throw a back kick to Bruce's stomach. He grunted with the impact, staggering backwards slightly. Before he could recover, a backfist to the chin caught him, followed by a slash. Bruce sidestepped the attack, grabbing Jason's arm and twisting it behind his back. Quickly, Jason turned, and Bruce released him, going instead for the knife. The blade made a muffled clatter on the floor as it was pulled from his fingers. Jason made no attempt to salvage his weapon, instead darting in towards Bruce. He brought his knee up as the boy charged, driving it into Jason's solar plexus. Gasping for breath, Jason staggered away, then was thrown backwards as Bruce's foot met his chest. Bruce moved in, but he was too slow. Jason rolled away and was back on his feet, unarmed, but far from defenseless.

Stalemate. Bruce reached for his belt, grabbing a few Batarangs. Again, they circled each other, eyes locked. Suddenly, Jason lunged to the side, grabbing for the contents of a small box, and Bruce realized too late what he was doing. He threw the projectiles just as Jason flung his.

Explosives. Small, but powerful. Belatedly, his arms flew up to protect his face, the light blinding, the noise deafening. The fusillade ceased just as a blow to the head struck him, knocking him down. His vision cleared enough to see Jason bearing down on him, now wielding a bagh nakh in each hand. He had barely managed to recover his senses before Jason was on him, slashing furiously with the blades. Rolling to the side, Bruce aimed a kick at the back of Jason's knee, tackling him as he stumbled. Before Jason could re-orient himself, Bruce had pinned him face-down on the floor, hands locked behind his back, Bruce straddling his hips.

"Stay down," Bruce said, his voice low.

"Fuck you," Jason growled, struggling.

Bruce pressed him down, gripping him tighter as he fought. "Jason, please," Bruce begged, "End this. Come home."

"Make me."

"If I have to."

"_Fine_," Jason spat, "Go ahead. I can't stop you. Do it. Cuff me, sedate me, knock me out- I don't give a shit. But don't think for a second that I'm giving up, that I think you're right. I don't forgive you. This isn't a homecoming." His voice was cold, scornful.

Bruce sighed. "The night's not over," Bruce told him, "We're not done talking about this."

"I'm not changing my mind."

Saying nothing, Bruce removed one hand from Jason's, moving to disarm him. He hadn't realized how much he'd loosened his grip until the blades dug into him, first slicing his palm, then his thigh. Jason tore his hands from Bruce's as he rolled to the side, bringing his heel down onto Bruce's stomach, only for Bruce to catch it, trapping it between his arms. Ignoring the protests of his injured leg, Bruce stood, then took a large step backwards, pulling Jason flat on his back. In response, Jason hooked his other leg behind Bruce's, but before Jason could pull him off balance, he released the boy, stepping forward and to the side. Before his foot even touched the ground, Jason was up, bolting just out of Bruce's range. Turning to face him, Jason just stood there, fists clenched.

_Damn it_. Bruce said nothing, assessing the situation. They were both tiring, but Jason was younger, had more stamina, and Bruce knew that his injured leg would slow him down. Nonetheless, Bruce was more skilled and better equipped, although the room was full of weapons. Still, he could prevent Jason from accessing them. In a fight, Bruce knew that he would win.

But that wasn't the issue. Threats to the contrary, Bruce could not simply beat Jason into submission- at best, it was a temporary solution, useless if he couldn't follow through. He needed Jason to understand. He needed to talk him down.

Easier said than done.

"Come home," Bruce implored for maybe the hundredth time.

"Give me one good reason."

"Because..." Bruce sighed, closing his eyes. "Because I can't lose you again."

He had said it more out of frustration than anything, but it worked. Jason blinked in surprise, taking a half step backwards, out of his fighting stance. Bruce saw the opportunity for attack, but he let it pass, continuing, "You're my son, and I love you, and I want you back."

"Then show me, damn it!"

"I'm trying."

Jason started to respond, then broke off, the meaning of Bruce's words hitting him. For a long time, there was silence, neither knowing what to say.

"Please," Bruce said at last, "Come home."

"I can't," Jason said quietly, not looking at him. Bruce could see tears welling up in his eyes, and the boy rubbed them away. Can't. Bruce wasn't sure if that was better or worse than won't.

"Why?" he asked.

"You know why!" Jason snapped, his voice raw.

"Why can't you let him go?" Bruce asked.

Jason looked back up at him, incredulous. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No."

"He tortured me! Murdered me! Took me away from you! And you're asking me to let him go? Doesn't any of that mean _anything_ to you?"

"And what will killing him change?"

"It- it-" Jason began, near hysterics, "God, you can't just let him go free! You know what he's done! The graveyards he's filled! The ones he will fill! He-" He broke off, taking a shuddering breath, then continued at a lower volume, "If you don't- if no one stops him, permanently, he's just going to keep doing it. Arkham can't hold him. You know that. You know how many times he's escaped! You know how many people he's killed! Hundreds- thousands have died because you didn't put that fucker down when you had the chance, and even more will if you don't."

"You don't know that."

"I think I can be pretty fucking sure."

"Are you sure enough? How sure do you have to be to pull that trigger? It's a hard line to draw, Jason- where do you draw it?"

"Right behind the fucking Joker!"

"It's not that easy."

"Why?"

"Because it's _never _that easy to make that call. What if you kill him? Who else? What's your criteria? How many murders? 1000? 100? Ten? One? Attempted murder? Rape? Assault?"

"That's-"

"How much of an escape risk does he need to be? How do you decide? Who deserves it?"

"The fucking Joker!" Jason shouted, then said, "Fine. No one else. Just him."

"It's more complicated than that."

"Why?"

"Once you cross that line, it's hard to go back."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Then how come you seem to think that I can be 'redeemed'? I've crossed that line. I've crossed that line a whole fucking lot."

"That's... different."

"How?"

"I never said it would be easy for-"

"_How?_"

Bruce sighed. "Because you're not in your right mind."

Jason tensed, baring his teeth, but did nothing else. After a moment, he relaxed slightly, still visibly agitated. "Fine. Fine. Let's say, for a second, that I'm- that I'm crazy. That somehow, that's different. Why not let me kill him? What's a little more blood on my hands? What changes?"

"You."

"Meaning?"

"He- broke you, Jason. A lot more than you know. Probably a lot more than I know. But not beyond repair." Jason's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, and Bruce continued, "But killing him? It would destroy you. Completely."

A pause. For a moment, Bruce thought that he had reached him. Then, "You're wrong."

"What do you think is going to happen, if you kill him?"

Jason blinked. "What do you mean?"

"If you kill him, it's over, and not in the way you think. There's no going back. Everyone will be after you. The police. The media. Criminals, and in a lot greater force than you'd think. Right now, the Red Hood can just disappear and no one will look too closely, but what if you kill him? They'll never stop looking for you. And they will, eventually, get lucky." He paused. "And even if they don't, you know that I'll have to track you down."

"I-"

"And it won't do anything. It won't help. I know, Jason. I know how much it hurts."

"No you don't! You have no idea-"

"But it won't help," Bruce continued, heedless of the interruption. "It won't make the pain go away. It won't make things better- it'll just make them worse."

"I don't care!" Jason paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath, then, "I'm a vigilante, Bruce. Yeah, I have training. Weapons. Body armor. Shit like that. But I go out, and I fight criminals. Every night. Sometimes just average street thugs, but a lot of times, it's organized crime, mob bosses, stuff like that. There are already a lot of people, dangerous people, that want my head. You and me, we both know that it's only a matter of time before one of them 'gets lucky'. It always is."

His meaning dawned on Bruce, and suddenly, he felt sick. "Jason-"

"So you know what? I don't give a shit. I don't _care _what happens once I kill the Joker. I want him dead. After everything he did to me- I _need _him dead. And I don't care what happens _next_," he finished, looking at Bruce challengingly, tears in his eyes.

For a moment, he could only stare at him. "You can't really believe that," Bruce said at last, imploring.

"What else am I supposed to believe?" he asked, voice heavy with emotion.

Bruce could say nothing in response. He had known that Jason was broken, but this-

What had the Joker done to his son?

Finally, "Don't do this to yourself, Jason." He stepped closer to the boy, "Don't let him win."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't you realize that this is what he wants? I know that he killed you, Jason. But you're back. Are you really going to let him destroy your life again?" Another step. "It doesn't have to be like this. It can be so much better." Jason started to say something, but no words escaped his lips. Pulling down his cowl, Bruce took a final step towards him, now face to face with his son, looking into his eyes. "Don't let him do this to you. Don't throw your life away for revenge. It's not worth it. _He's_ not worth it." Gently, he took the boy's hands, sliding the claws from his fingers. Jason made no move to resist, just staring at him. The claws thudded dully on the floor.

"I-" Jason began, then trailed off, his voice breaking as he looked away, tears trickling down his cheek.

"Please," Bruce whispered, "Let me help you. Let me save you." He reached a hand out towards Jason and cupped the side of the his son's face, pulling his gaze back to him, brushing the tears from his eyes. "Just come home."

And finally, it was over. He caught Jason as his son half sat, half collapsed to the ground. Bruce pulled the boy close, holding him as he shuddered and sobbed against his father's chest.

"Shhh," he whispered soothingly, rubbing a hand over Jason's back, "It's going to be okay." He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back in silent gratitude to the universe. "Everything's going to be okay."

And finally, it was over.


	5. Reminiscence

A/N:

Prompt: death

Rating: T for violence, swearing (some f-words, but I don't think they're prolific enough for an "R")

Characters/pairings: Jason

Summary: Jason looks back at his death and resurrection.

* * *

You asked me to wait, of course. "Don't tangle with the Joker alone. Wait for me to get back, please. That madman's just too dangerous for you to handle."

Did you really expect me to hang back? I mean, she was my mother. My own flesh and blood, the ties that bind and all that.

I should have listened. I wish I had. But... she was my mother, and I was an idiot like that.

So I told her. Went back, said I knew about the Joker and wanted to help. Told her I was Robin.

I believed her when she said he was gone. Nothing to worry about. She had something for me to see.

It was something, all right.

I should have seen the blow coming. I should have been able to defend myself. Years of training, of practice and experience, and it all flew out the window the moment she pulled the gun on me.

I was shocked. Reeling. She was my mother. My long-lost mother. I'd spent days tracking her down. Told her who I was. Offered her my help. And she was standing there, aiming a gun at me and telling me that she lied, that she couldn't let me turn the Joker in because it'd expose her own embezzling. That she'd sell out her own son to hide it.

"Sorry, kid. Looks like you chose the wrong person to trust, this time."

She was talking, and the Joker was saying something, but it seemed like just noise in the background, words that never registered. It seemed like the rest of the world had disappeared, that there was nothing but me and that pistol, the one my mother was aiming at me. All I could do was stand there, staring at the gun.

Then he hit me- not with the crowbar, not yet. I managed to recover myself enough to fight back, but his goons attacked me, knocked the wind out of me, and I was down. It was all the time he needed.

I remember him taking it from off the crates, remember turning around and seeing it coming at me, impossibly slow. Time slowed to a crawl, and I could see every detail as it inched through the air, but I was frozen- I couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

I choked. The moment it mattered most, I froze and did nothing.

I failed.

Then the blow came. And then another, and another, and another, explosions of agony that just wouldn't stop, coming too fast for me to collect myself, keeping me disoriented. He was killing me, and all I could do was lay there and feel my body breaking.

I don't know how long it lasted- I can't remember any of the details.

No, that's wrong. I remember. I remember the Joker, grinning. I remember laughter, cold, mocking laughter. I remember a flash of silver streaked with red, coming back and then down, again and again and again. I remember Sheila just standing there, smoking and trying not to look at me. I remember the sickening "crack" as yet another bone shattered.

I remember pain.

I remember so many little details; I just don't remember anything else. I can't remember how long it was, or how many times I passed out, or who else was there, or how much damage I took, or _anything_ but the Joker and Sheila and that goddamned fucking _crowbar_.

I guess I must have blacked out a few times, I don't know. Like I said, it's a little blurry. But after an eternity, I passed out one more time, and when I woke up, he was gone. It was just me and Sheila. Just us, and a bomb.

She was tied to one of the support columns- she'd betrayed me, and the Joker had betrayed her. Fitting irony, in retrospect.

Sheila asked me to deactivate it, but I could barely stand, let alone defuse an explosive. So you know what I did? I tried to save her. Every bone in my body was broken, and all I could think of was getting her out of there, of saving the "mother" who had sold me out, who had just stood there while the Joker had beaten me.

I was kind of an idiot like that.

I got her untied, and she helped me towards the exit and tried the door. It was locked.

We were trapped.

I didn't exactly have much time to think, but one thing hit me, then and there: I was going to die. This time, there would be no miracle reprieve, no death-defying escape, no Batman swooping in in the nick of time and saving the day. I was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.

And then... boom.

I don't think I can even begin to describe the agony that I felt then. My ears were ringing, my eyes unfocused, the world a barely visible blur. Every bone in my body felt like it had been shattered, mostly because they had. Each breath was a futile torture, the little air I was getting barely worth the protests of my broken ribs and punctured lungs, doing nothing but to hold off the inevitable and provide fuel for the occasional dry, wracking cough.

They say that your life flashes in front of your eyes just before you die, and it's kind of true. I mean, you see it, but it's not like the stories make it sound. It's not like sitting down to a movie, with every little moment of your life playing on the screen. Things just kind of... flicker. One moment, I'm lying there, struggling to breathe, and the next, it's my first night out as Robin, and I'm moving through the skyline, flying, and it's- God, it feels like-

... I just sort of drifted in and out. Memories came and went sluggishly with no real rhyme or reason. It was like that, for a while.

Well, I probably didn't hang on for more than a few minutes, but it seemed like forever.

It's funny how, even though I was really losing it then, floating more and more into delusions of the past and staying less and less in the miserable present, just before the end, everything got really clear. The hallucinations stopped, the pain- it didn't go away, exactly, but it kind of faded into the background, I guess- and everything was cold. So cold. Colder than I'd ever been before in my life. I could feel my heart beating weakly, hear the air whistling through my punctured lung, and sense the life draining out of me, so very slowly.

Even as a kid, I was never really that religious, but in that moment, lying there, a beaten, bloody mass, I prayed. Not for a miracle, not for a rescue, not even for you, Bruce. I just prayed for it to be over.

Please, God.

Just let me die.

It wasn't long after that. The world started to blur into a collection of faint, fuzzy shapes, then was lost completely to a kaleidoscope of colors, flickering and fading from one end of the spectrum to another. Then everything went black.

And then it was dark. I don't mean like "night" dark, I mean pitch black. For a moment, I thought I had gone blind, but even in my fog, I realized pretty quickly that it wasn't me. Something was different.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. The air was damp and musty, rank with the stench of mildew, earth and rotting flesh and decaying wood. I gagged.

"Confused" doesn't even begin to describe how I felt then. I'm not sure anything does, really. One moment, I was dying among the wreckage of an old warehouse in the hot desert sun, and suddenly I was here, in the cold, wet, stinking dark.

Gingerly, I raised my battered arms, fumbled around. Something soft and padded met my searching hands, but as I pressed on it, nothing gave way. Panic rising, I felt to my sides, above me, hammered against the surrounding walls to no avail.

I was trapped. Suddenly, the rancid air was so very, very precious.

I screamed. Pounding against the ceiling of my prison, I cried for my father, begged for escape. My mind was wracked with confusion- I couldn't think, because everything hurt, and I couldn't see, and it was so dark and it stank and I had no idea where I was or what had happened and my brain just wouldn't work and damn it, _where were you_?

Desperately, I searched myself for something, _anything_ I could use, but I had nothing. I wasn't wearing my Robin costume, and the suit I was wearing didn't have a goddamned thing. Finally, I found something: a belt buckle. It was all I had, hardly useful, but it was _something_.

Things get blurry here, but I got out. Frantically, I clawed at the padding, then scraped at the wood with my fingers and makeshift gouge, bent back, ripped off my nails and tore my fingers to shreds against pine shards, and somehow, I got out.

It was raining. I remember that, because the mud flowed back in on me as I dug, made the grass slip under my bloodied fingers as I grabbed at it. The water soaked my clothes, made them heavy and cold, but God, it felt so good against my skin, my shredded nails and many wounds.

I walked. For hours, I just walked. I have no idea where I found the strength, but I kept going. Here's where it gets really choppy- I don't remember what I was thinking, where I was trying to go or what I was trying to do, if anything. I don't remember how long it was, just that it must have been hours, miles. I don't really remember anything. I have a faint memory of an ambulance, of men in white swarming around me, asking me incomprehensible questions with far-away voices. A few flashes of sound or color- huddling under a torn newspaper, a fight in an alley, running from some faceless pursuer, people shouting. Things like that.

I have a gap in my memory, a big one. It had to have been at least 2, maybe 3 years, probably more, I don't know. But sometime during that time, Talia found me. She says that she kept me for a while, and when she realized that I wasn't going to get back any of my memory or personality...

The next thing I remember is the Pit.

Oh God. The Lazarus Pit.

It was like... fire. Everything was burning- my skin, my lungs, my eyes, even my mind, if that makes sense. Memories flashed before my eyes, violently forcing themselves into my awareness, and I lived my life- and death- all over again. All that I'd ever known, every moment of joy, of fear, of agony, surprise and anger raged through my mind in the space of a few seconds, tore at my mind, my sanity.

A woman pulled me out, and I asked her what the hell was going on, the words unfamiliar on my tongue. I didn't know where I was or what was happening, just that I just wanted to curl up and pass out, because everything was so painfully intense. The air of the room was freezing after the inferno of the Lazarus Pit, and it was bright, too bright, and the clamor of voices was like nails in my skull, agonizingly loud. My limbs felt heavy and new, and I staggered, the woman I now recognized as Talia dragging me along. Eventually, my legs remembered themselves, and we ran, the night air even colder than the hall we'd just come out of, the wet grass slippery under my feet. I didn't know why we were running, why people were chasing us, and questions spilled from my mouth, words tripping over each other, but Talia just told me that there was no time, to learn the truth before I went back to you, that I was unavenged. I didn't know what she was talking about, not yet, but there was no time to ask; Ra's Al Ghul's men were almost on us.

And then she kissed me. I don't know why- I think it was supposed to be motherly or something, but she never brought it up again or anything- then she shoved a duffel bag into my arms and pushed me over the edge of a waterfall.

The water was like ice around me, the river tossing me around like a rag doll, but my senses were settling down now, and I gathered myself enough to swim to shore. I found a motorcycle waiting for me, some clothes and the keys in the bag she'd given me. I made it to a cheap hotel room, and realized what Talia had meant.

He was alive. The Joker was still alive. I had suffered, died, my murder still so vivid, so real, and you had let that psychotic son of a bitch _live_?

I'd never been so angry in my life. I lost it completely, hitting, kicking, throwing, just wrecking everything I could. The table flew across the room, the lamp into the TV. I tore my knuckles open on the mirror, then ripped it from the wall, hurling it to the floor and bringing my foot down on it, not caring as the shards bit into me. The sheets were wrenched from the bed, the mattress kicked from the bed frame, the cheap metal clattering noisily as I overturned it. The room echoed with screaming, shouts of rage and agony- mine. Eventually, I'd broken all there was to break, and I collapsed, sobbing, in the debris.

That night, I couldn't sleep. All I could do was sit there, pitching from fury to anguish to longing to desperation and back again. One moment I hated you- I swear to God, Bruce, I was literally ready to kill you, then and there- and the next, I just wanted to go home, to see you again and hear you tell me that I'm your son and you love me and to hear you explain why you hadn't killed him, because you had to have a reason for it that I just wasn't seeing, right? So many times, I had the phone in my hand, had your number half-dialed, but couldn't go through with it, because, deep down, I knew that you had no excuse, probably didn't have the decency to at least feel guilt for letting him live. There was no going back, not while the Joker was still breathing.

God, why couldn't he just _die_?! I didn't even care if you weren't the one who did it; I could live with you not killing him, even after what he did to me. I wanted you to kill him, yes, but I would be okay, just as long as he was gone. I could handle that. But- after everything that he did to me-

I needed him dead, Bruce.

I need him dead.

* * *

A/N: Two resolutions:

1. The next 3 fics I write for this challenge will NOT be Jason-centric. Slap me if I don't keep this promise; I really need to write some other characters.

2. The next Jason-centric fic I write will focus on the snarky, psychotic Red Hood side of Jason. Yes, he can be such a woobie, but that's far from the only aspect of the character, and I've been doing _way_ too much Jason!angst lately.


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